Rain poured down in sheets, obscuring the road ahead. The Conclave Way lead from village to town to Lisbay with wagons, fellow horsemen, and an occasional goat. Warric's coat kept the water off him, but rain pooled at the juncture of his thighs, saturating his breeches and chilling him. Now if he had any competency with fire magic, the droplets would sizzle as they hit him. Alas, air and darkness were his gifts to Sagua and more than utilized in the service of Baron Gregory.

The next town was Borfort. He would settle at the Black Dog tavern and watch the road. Anyone riding past would be within sight. Having never met the Sheriff of Netherbury, Warric didn't know his appearance. He would rely on instinct, the image the man presented in his posture and attire, and if the Lord was willing, arrogance would drive the sheriff to announce his new position while downing an ale.

Warric dismounted, landing in a puddle, splashing his breeches and boots with mud. He pressed his temple to Serenity's neck. "Sorry, old friend. I cannot control the weather."

When he whinnied in response, Warric gathered the reins and urged Serenity into the stables.

"The best for my horse," he said, leveling a glare on the hapless stable master. "Touch my things and die." He patted the saddle, the butt of his shotgun sticking out.

The man gaped then curtsied. Tossing him a gold coin, Warric strode across the busy road to the tavern. A warm glow from the windows and door spilled across the dismal ground. As soon as he stepped inside, an elderly woman screamed for him to wait.

"Let me dry you, kind sir." She waved a hand, and in an instant, he was dry and clean.

He grunted at the immediate warmth bathing his body. Fire and earth magic were a wonderful combination. He gave her a silver in thanks and let her usher him to a table near a roaring fire.

"Ale and a bowl from your pot." He sat and rested his elbows on the table.

She hurried off to do as asked. Wall-mounted sconces added light, their bases old and tarnished. Still, about a hand's width above, a ball of flame spun and flickered. Fire magic indeed. He could fade into shadow, kill without thought or emotion, and manipulate sounds. None of those granted him any comfort.

A warm ale and a bowl of...he sniffed...goat stew was set before him. He pushed a coin across the scoured wooden table to the serving wench, who snatched it up and darted to the kitchen. Mm, skittish. Scanning the crowd, he tried to assess the level of danger in the room. A tall man, wide in shoulders and girth might pose a problem. The wily man beside him, scrawny and hunched, more so. Taking a long drink from his ale, Warric set the tankard down and dug into the stew. It tasted like the ass-end of the goat, but it was hot, heating him from the inside.

The conversations resumed, most about the shitty weather, some about farming and livestock, and one about the blacksmith's daughter. None of them were Warric's business. He kept his head down but his focus on the road he glimpsed through the grimy windows. Wagons passed. Horsemen headed to Lisbay, so the wrong direction, and those riding north had the look of farmers or soldiers. By his third ale, he'd taken an interest in the blacksmith's daughter. Their comments weren't savory other than mentioning her beauty and innocence. He clenched his jaw against having to kill more than planned. The sheriff, sure, as per Gregory's instructions, but these men... Warric had no doubt they'd done these vile deeds before. What other innocents had suffered?

He had a mission. If he dallied in an alley, giving each man a crimson necklace, he might miss the sheriff's passing. Time dragged, with his attention split between the road and the two men. When they stood, the sun had begun to set. Warric rose on instinct, trailing the men while they staggered out of the tavern. He paused and raised his face to the clearing sky. At least, the rain had stopped. The men had taken up vigilance opposite the blacksmith. Smoke still bellowed out of its chimney, the store open to the elements. A young woman stoked the furnace, sweat glistening off her heaving bosom still perky in her youth. The smithy was older than Warric would have liked.

Had the men continued past, Warric might have warned the smithy and left it at that. Palming his dagger, he strode along the muddy road, dodging puddles and horse shit. His boots were beyond salvation without magic, but cleaning shit off was a no. He shuddered.

Dipping to the left, he 'bumped' into the scrawny man, sending him flying into the heftier one. As expected, they grunted and spun on him. Warric held up a hand, pretended to sway then 'stumbled' into the alley while jangling his pouch of coins.

With a flick of a wrist, he faded, allowing the shadows to swathe him in darkness. Warmth flowed through him as his magic fed off and replenished itself. A shimmer circled his vision, outlining everything in purple. The men called out, spinning and peering into the shadows. Warric moved, targeting the most troublesome of the two. By the time they realized they were in danger, the heftier one gurgled, fell to his knees, bounced off his face, and sprawled in eternal silence.

"Hey—" Scrawny's eyes widened. His hands flew to his throat. Blood trickled through his fingers. With a last gasp, he hit the ground, spraying mud onto Warric's left boot.

He grimaced and wiped his dagger across the dead man's jerkin. Keeping his gaze on the road, he dragged the bodies deeper into the shadows. The pounding of hooves and the rickety creaks of wagon wheels added to the laughter and cries from the tavern. No alarm sounded. He tilted his head to listen, honing air magic to be certain.

Voices, scratching, coughing, hammering, hoofbeats, the crack of a whip, the sizzle of a fire reverberated in his ears. Air magic was a gift and a curse.

Into this cacophony came the plaintive cry of a kitten. He jerked back, scanned the alley, then smiled at the muddy bundle of fur shivering in what moonlight spilled into the darkness.

"Look at you," he whispered and scooped the kitten into his arms, taking a moment to check the sodden creature's sex—a male. "Where's your mother, mm?" He listened for a mother cat's cries, but there was nothing. "You're stuck with me, Mud."

Slipping out of the alley, he hurried to the tavern and waited at the door, expecting the old woman from earlier to wave her hand and clean him and Mud. A service he was more than happy to pay for. As he waited, a man shoved him aside.

Warric ground his teeth, fighting for patience. "I beg your pardon," he snapped.

"You should." The man swept off his wide-brimmed hat and slapped it across his chapped thigh. "I need a hot meal and an ale. See to it."

Warric narrowed his eyes and assessed the man. He started with the polished boots, high-quality breeches, and fine-leather chaps. Two exquisite gold-filigree pistols looked like they'd never been fired. His bulging gut stretched a crisp white tunic. A thick moustache squatted like a weasel on his top lip. Ruddy cheeks and a semi-smooth jaw worsened Warric's opinion of him.

"Unless you want it poisoned, I suggest you find a tavern maid and ask her..." Warric leaned in, bringing his darkness with him. "Nicely."

The man stepped back, arched a brow, then snorted, giving Warric a cold shoulder.

The skittish maid from earlier offered a tentative smile to Warric. "Oh, you have returned, sir. Would you like your old table?"

"I was here first," ground out the other man.

"Thank you, the same table would be wonderful." Warric gestured to his coat and blood-splattered breeches. "Would you mind asking your mistress—"

"See here," the pompous man spluttered.

Losing his patience, Warric leveled his gaze on him. The man choked, clutched at his throat, then coughed as he fought for breath. Before releasing the stranglehold Warric's darkness had on the man's throat, he gave it one last squeeze.

"I said...nicely." He tossed a silver to the maid. "Another ale, please."

"Of course." She bowed her head then scurried to the barkeep.

"Sentinel Warric of Auriville, I serve Baron Gregory of Kenningthain." Sharing his real name wouldn't matter. Not when the man would die knowing it. "You are?" He put enough disdain into his voice to make any man shrivel.

"Thomas of Hasden, Sheriff of Netherbury," the man spat. "I serve Lord Emil of Kenningthain."

Warric stilled and blessed him with a broad smile. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sirrah. Care to join me?" He swept out a hand, gesturing to the table by the fire.

Taken aback, Thomas gaped, straightened his spine so his gut bounced, then flounced to the table. The poor chair squeaked in protest when the man sat.

"Ale?" Warric waved a hand at the maid to bring another tankard. "The stew is hot. That's all that recommends it."

Thomas chuckled. "Hot is just what I need. The weather has been abysmal."

"Indeed." Warric stroked the kitten's head as he studied the man he would kill. The maid placing brimming tankards on the table broke Warric's focus. "Pray, ask your mistress for her service. My garments are in a state." He slid two silvers across to her. "Any scraps for my cat."

"Aye, sire." She hurried off, granting them privacy.

"I assume you are headed for Netherbury?" Warric took a long pull from the insipid ale, his gaze fixed on Thomas.

"Aye, and yourself, to the north?"

Warric nodded. "I will be riding through Netherbury if you care for company." It wasn't meant as a question. Whether the man agreed or not, Warric would remain close to him—in the shadows behind him or by his side, he cared not which one.

"A man of your caliber would be an asset, to be sure." Thomas tapped his pudgy fingers on the table.

The elderly woman from earlier stopped by the table, placed a plate of chicken innards before Warric, and waved her hand, cleaning him and Mud. She faced Thomas, did the same, dipped into a short curtsey and was off.

"A lovely magic to have." Warric downed his ale.

A lad whipped out a qitary and filled the common room with jaunty music, his voice pleasing. For a time, as Thomas spilled his life's story, Warric could pretend he was among friends, with no obligations weighing on his shoulders. Mud gobbled his meal then curled onto Warric's lap, contentment in his steady purring.

His last pet had been a baby bird that hadn't survived its broken wing. Perhaps, when he was but a child, if he'd had someone to care for, then he wouldn't have this need for companionship that asked nothing from him but his time. Perhaps he ached to be something more than a killer, someone who could be gentle, could show mercy. Hell's teeth, could love.

He shoved the tankard aside. Having another would be foolish if these maudlin thoughts continued.

"Staying the night, or are we pressing through?" He stroked Mud's neck, wincing when the kitten's claws dug into his unprotected inner thigh.

"The weather has improved." After drinking from his tankard, Thomas licked his lips. "I might take advantage of it while it lasts. Mayhap we reach Netherbury in good time."

"If need be, we could camp alongside the Olion."

"True, but I prefer a softer bed than the forest floor." Thomas rubbed the back of his neck. "These old bones..."

"Do you have lodgings in Netherbury or must you still acquire them when you arrive?" Warric gathered Mud and slid him into his inside pocket. It was the largest and warmest spot for the cat.

"All part of the contract." Thomas beamed.

"That was most generous of Emil."

Thomas frowned. "Lord Emil."

"My apologies. I have spent so much time with Baron Gregory that I have picked up his mannerisms." Warric grinned. "Pray I do not meet Lord Emil." He smothered a wince at showing the man any sort of respect. "How goes his search for the amulet?"

"I do not know," Thomas replied as he pushed himself to his feet.

Warric followed suit and trailed the man out of the tavern. "I am most curious. 'Tis said to have belonged to the Last Empyrean."

"What could such an artifact do?" Thomas mused while they strode to the stables. "It might lead one to a hidden treasure? Offer wisdom?"

Warric shrugged. "'Tis for us mere servants to ponder."

Serenity's coat, now dry, glistened under the lantern's light. A glance confirmed the satchels untouched. Mounting, Warric accepted the reins the stablemaster held up to him, and with a nudge of his heel, lurched into a canter.

Night had truly fallen. Although darkness for one such as he offered refuge and opportunities. He feared it not. Adjusting his vision allowed the road and the surrounding forests to appear as if bathed in purple light. Sunlight and firelight was the antithesis of darkness and of no use to him. If he had his way, he would sleep all day and work at night. Alas, Baron Gregory expected Warric to do as commanded, no matter the hour.

The Conclave Way was abandoned the longer the moon crossed the sky. At least, Thomas had ceased his chatter, allowing the night creatures to serenade Warric. He could give his magic free reign, to warn him of approaching trouble, to whisper of passing predators or fellow travelers. It also allowed him to track the Olion river running along the road.

As anticipated, when they had yet to reach Netherbury by midnight, Warric gestured to a secluded corpse of trees. "Shall we?"

Thomas grunted, steered off the road, then dismounted with a whimper before tethering his horse to a nearby tree. Warric did the same, sans the whimper. Within minutes, he had a fire going and his bedroll set out. He took the time to brush Serenity down, then draped a blanket across his back, to ward off a chill. Lying on his bedroll, he watched Thomas struggle, groaning when he kneeled and rolled onto his back.

Warric said nothing. What more was there to discuss? He planned to wait two more hours. No sympathy rose to sway him. Besides, his instructions were clear. Kill the man and assume his position as sheriff. Letting Thomas live would complicate things.

Warric must be getting soft to be contemplating other scenarios. Mud mewled. He withdrew the kitten, rolled onto his side, and let Mud scramble around and over him. Time ticked by and still, he waited...for Thomas's snoring.

A man that unhealthy surely had to snore.

Author's Note: The Lady and the Assassin is available at most ebook retailers.

https://books2read.com/u/bMV888